by John Creasey
“Come and see the lovers again,” he said, indulgently. He pressed a switch and the projector whirred. Pictures of Janey and of Philip Carr appeared, sharp and clear and in startlingly natural colours. They were walking along the riverbank, then across the lawns, hand-in-hand. There were pictures of them kissing, embracing, of them dancing cheek-to-cheek, eating, sleeping. Occasionally Jane Wylie seemed pensive but most of the time she seemed light-hearted and gay, while Philip Carr seemed to be more content than he had ever been at The Project, as if he had won his victory and asked for nothing more.
In the laboratories they did their work with much less preoccupations than before; and whenever they passed close or were standing together, they touched hands or touched bodies. From time to time their voices faded into a whisper, but always in moments of intimacy or embrace.
The film came to an end with a swift sequence of them lying close, in bed. As Parsons switched the projector off, Ashley remarked: “I wish I knew what they whispered about.”
“Sweet nothings.” Parsons seemed completely convinced.
“I hope so,” Ashley said. “I certainly hope so. We’ll keep them under close surveillance for another week, until Taylor’s replacement has had a few more days to settle down.”
“We’re still being watched,” Philip whispered.
With a glint in her eyes, Janey retorted: “Perhaps we always will be.”
“You’d be condemned to half a life here, even with me.”
“If this is half a life,” Janey said, “I’ve never lived at all before!”
They laughed, spontaneously. Everything they did and said indicated that they were becoming happier and happier, and except in flash moods of fear as to what would happen if Philip tried to escape, Janey was thoroughly happy.
Paul Taylor’s replacement was an ‘older’ man, in his forties. Already mostly grey, he had a big bald spot, grizzled sideburns which were like mutton-chop whiskers, and he had a bushy moustache which had more of its original auburn colour than his hair. His pointed chin was clean-shaven and shiny. He was very broad but shorter than medium height, and he moved briskly although handicapped by some trouble in his left leg, which made him limp, and also made him turn towards the left with great care; either his hip joint moved more easily that way or he was in pain.
His name was Killinger – Eric Killinger. He spoke good English but with a foreign accent which it was hard to place. His specific job, as Paul’s had been, was to test and analyse the oven and the synthetic materials from which the crystals were made, before passing the crystals to Janey who in turn prepared the containers for the ovens.
Occasionally Janey glanced over at him expecting to see Paul, and was suddenly overcome by what had happened, feeling a sharp pang of remorse that she could be so content. Yet she was. Philip seemed just as happy, and except for those flash moods of remorse and the stabs of fear about Philip’s preparations for escape, she was untroubled. There were times when she asked herself whether she would be prepared to settle for this life for all time, and even though she always dismissed the thought, knowing that she would become homesick for the outside world, she was certainly prepared to live in this vacuum for a long, long time. Philip seemed to become more and more absorbed in their loving and their living. He still kept his own one room apartment but spent most of his time with her. The nightmare of the attack on Paul had receded so that even when the mental image came it did not hurt; guilt quite died away.
Every now and again the noise ceased and brief spells of silence came, but they no longer brought shock. One struck as they were leaving the laboratory just before six o’clock, a later working day than most, for Leadbetter had come in from an interview with Ashley and Parsons and some other VIP Ashley looked brighter than he had for a long time.
“We are getting nearer,” he said exultantly. “There were pieces of lead which did not melt in some of yesterday’s batches, Janey.”
Her heart leapt. “But that’s wonderful!”
“It is indeed. And the whole of the team is to be congratulated and rewarded. We are to get a bonus of ten per cent on our salary, and the week after next, we shall have a longer break than usual from work.”
Janey thought, a holiday? But no one asked whether they would be able to leave The Project area. There was excitement in all of them, particularly in Freddie Ferris, who had lost some of his nervousness during the past week.
They were going into the tunnel passage when the noise stopped and the walls and the floor went utterly still. Killinger raised his hands in alarm; it was his first experience of the ‘silence’. After missing a step, Philip tucked Janey’s arm beneath his, and quickened his pace.
“Come on! I want every minute I can have with you!” He pressed her arm tightly; and in her room before she cooked a simple dinner, his embrace seemed to have an additional touch of passion. But it wasn’t until afterwards that she suspected why.
“If we ever go out into the cold, cold, world, you’ll be worth a job as a chef any day. I’d forgotten that mushrooms tasted so scrumptious and that minute steaks really melted in the mouth.” And later: “Darling, I don’t believe you did make this apple pie!” Soon, he put the Suite from Swan Lake on the record player and stood over her as she sat in an armchair, content and a little overfed. “Sweetheart,” he said. “I’ve a report to make for the VIPs, and I ought to go and do it. I’ll be back by eleven. Will that be all right?”
“Of course,” she answered. “It will give me a chance to do some chores.” By ‘chores’ she meant some personal laundry and mending.
Instead of suspecting the truth, she was actually glad; work even in this tiny apartment did pile up.
She had to scurry to finish by ten-to-eleven, tidied up, and by a minute or two after eleven she was waiting. When another five minutes passed she was aware of their going, but not troubled.
After ten minutes, she wondered whether she ought to call Philip’s flat, but all the telephones here were electronically controlled and if she showed any anxiety then the VIPs would learn from one of the computers. She did not want to appear over anxious.
It was as that thought struck that fear followed, with a shattering blow. All contentment faded and she went cold. She began to shiver. He wasn’t coming back. This was the night he had chosen to escape.
Oh, God! What could happen to him?
Oh, dear God, how could he leave her without a word of warning? How could he be so cruel?
She stood close to the windows, looking out, imagining figures in the shadows, moving forward as they had on Paul Taylor, but it was imagination. No one was outside. It was a wet and windy night, perhaps that was why he had chosen it.
How could he—
She stopped herself from these reproaches; if he had had to go then he could not possibly have warned her, lest she should show her emotions and warn all those who watched.
At half-past eleven, there was no sign of him.
Nor by twelve.
She had not the slightest doubt now that he had made his attempt and wondered, anguished, whether he had been caught already, whether he really had a chance, did not help. She made herself her usual malt drink, then went to bed, acutely conscious that he wasn’t with her; that he hadn’t made the drink for her as he usually did. She was obsessed by fear, and was sure she would not sleep.
But she did sleep.
And she was still asleep next morning when Ashley and Parsons with two other men opened the door of her apartment with a pass key. The first awareness of waking was of a hand at her shoulder, shaking vigorously, and when at last she opened her eyes there was bright sunlight, and she knew that she was late.
Then Ashley asked in a cold, cruel voice: “Where is Carr? Where is he?” And after a pause he clutched her shoulders and his fingers bit into the flesh with sharp and intended pain. “You know. And if you don’t tell us at once, we’ll thrash the truth out of you.”
She remembered the attack on Paul Taylor.
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nbsp; They took her out of her apartment to a small, barely furnished room, a strange room of mirrors. By the time she reached this room she was out of the shock, and knew that everything Philip had said about The Project was true. Philip’s disappearance had shaken them so severely that they gave up all pretence. These were evil men. She would never be free from this place; might not even get out of this room alive.
A man she did not know asked in a cold voice: “Where is Carr?”
6: The Thunder
Janey gasped: “I don’t know, I don’t know!” And it was the simple truth. The awakening and all that had followed brought terror but the question, repeated, relief and elation, for Philip must have got away.
The man in front of her, not Ashley, not Parsons, had the thinnest lips and the thinnest face she had ever seen in a man. He had a long, hooked nose and hooded eyes and a high, domed forehead, the thin, grey hair receding. It was like looking at a man made-up to appear unearthly – inhuman.
“I do not believe you,” he said in a thin, precise voice. “You were lovers too long for him to deceive you.”
“He told me nothing,” she cried. “Absolutely nothing!”
She was standing in front of the man who was behind a crescent-shaped desk; and she stood in a room of mirrors. She could see herself, naked to the waist, wearing only a white miniskirt, which she wore for tennis. She could see her own reflection and the reflection of the man who stood behind her, holding a short whip in his right hand. There was no pretence about his disguise; he wore a white mask which covered his face, with slits for the eyes and the mouth.
It was very bright, glaring bright; and the lights all seemed to shine on her, as if to reveal her nakedness mercilessly. She was terrified with part of her mind but positively detached with the other. It was silent in here; there was no sound but her breathing and their voices – and the soft breathing of the man behind her.
The one at the desk looked at him; she saw this in the mirror. And the man in the mask, the one who looked as the executioner would before raising his dreadful axe, nodded back. She saw this; she knew that the gestures and the glances were intended to wear at her nerves, and she was already close to screaming point.
The man at the desk nodded.
The man behind her raised the whip, and lashes seemed to spray from it. She gasped, fought back fear but was the more terrified. He flicked with his wrist and a dozen lashes stung her, but there was no great pain; nothing she could not bear. But what would she do if he really struck savagely?
Darkness, blackness, fell upon the room.
The silence was suddenly broken by what seemed a thunderclap, but it was not simply one, or two, or even three; where there had been silence there was this hideous noise, assailing her like a physical thing – worse, far worse, than the threatened lash. It was pitch black, and the thunder did what seemed impossible, became louder and yet louder until it filled her body and her head, seized her nerves and tore at them until they were red-raw. She began to sway, but as she moved one way hands pushed her back, when she went off balance other hands pushed her; and this happened again and again. Her head seemed to be severed from her shoulders, it was as if the roaring was concentrated inside her head and there were no bones, no brains, no eyes or lips or nose or mouth, just this dreadful noise and the constant pushing, and the awful agony of trying to breathe.
Suddenly, all went still and silent.
And as her body spun and her head seemed to be turned to jelly and was one great ache, the lights flashed on. At first they dazzled her, and made more pain but slowly she was able to open them and see the man again, although he seemed blurred and shapeless, too. And she saw herself, and the man behind her, masked, perhaps the one who had been here before.
He held her wrists, behind her.
He held her so that her head was thrust back and her bosom forward.
The man at the desk said: “I shall not warn you again.”
There was no strength in her body, her mouth seemed so dry that it could burn and her tongue clove to the roof. But she made herself gasp: “You’ve no right to do this to me. You’ve no right to—” She broke off as she felt a slight pressure behind her. Her arms were drawn still further back, and she thought the man was easing his grip on her wrists – oh, dear God, he was pinioning them with one big hand and holding the whip in the other.
“You have no rights here,” a man said. “You will have no mercy, unless you tell the truth. Where is Carr?”
She gasped: “I don’t know!”
Silence followed and as suddenly, another period of stygian darkness.
She could hear her own breath, rasping. She tried to brace herself against what agony would come next, and slowly became aware of dim lights, of pictures, of one picture thrown against a mirror and then reflected a dozen times. It was a man – oh, God, it was Paul Taylor, being clubbed, and clubbed and clubbed again.
Next, there was a woman.
Soon there were men and women, so beaten, so bruised, so broken, that they seemed like limp rag dolls, not the human beings they had once been nor the lovely body that she was. She tried to close her eyes but could not, the pictures flashed in horrible succession, first the living then the dead.
As suddenly as before all went still and quiet and dark. But soon lights appeared, and she could see the man at the desk and the darkened mirrors which gave little reflection. The man spoke gently. “Janey,” he said. “We don’t want to do these things to you.”
She made herself say: “You’ve no right to treat me – anyone – like this. I’m just an employee, and—”
“Tell us what you know and what you were plotting, and you need not worry,” he promised her.
They had no right to treat her like this but she had no power to prevent them. She had no doubt that what she had suffered so far was nothing compared with what she could suffer at their hands. It was no use talking about right, all she could do was try to ease her own situation, and there was only one way she could do that – by telling them a little, enough to save herself but not to hurt Philip.
And Philip had escaped.
She gasped: “I don’t know anything, I wasn’t plotting. All—” she caught her breath.
“Go on,” the man urged, softly. “Go on, Janey.”
“All I know is that he once talked about this being like a prison, and of trying to escape.”
“So he did? And how, without being overheard?”
“He—he told me when we were in bed together. But I don’t know where he planned to go; I tried to persuade him not to try. I swear I did!”
“Why didn’t you tell us before, Janey?”
“I—I love him,” she managed to blurt out, aware of his cold gaze. That made her hesitate for a long time before repeating in a broken voice: “Because I love him so.” And then, belatedly, she went on: “Why should I tell you? I work for you. I’m not a slave.”
“Janey,” the man said, “you should have spoken of this talk of prison.”
She was broken enough in spirit to say: “I know, I know.”
“Then why did you keep silent?”
She said in an anguished voice: “Because I love him so.”
There was silence. Soon, her fears flooded back and reached an agonising crescendo when the man behind her moved. But it was not to strike her. He released her wrist and draped a wrap over her shoulders. She clutched it at the neck to hide herself. At the same instant, a chair was placed behind her and the man who had threatened violence and pain now helped her to sit down. Another man appeared, with a tall mug of coffee, hot but not too hot to sip. It poured warmth through her veins and eased her fear; and she began to tremble from reaction.
“I am inclined to believe you,” the man conceded in his gentler voice. “But you know now what will happen to you if you are ever caught out in a lie. This is no ordinary place, but those who serve faithfully are treated well.” He paused long enough to let the words sink in, with all their sinister implication
s, before going on: “We know that Philip Carr put a powerful sleeping powder into the malt bedtime drink you had last night. His fingerprints were found on the tin which contained it, and some of the drug was also found in his room.” He paused again, and when he spoke next there was a steely note in his voice. “Now listen and watch with great care. I want to know whether you have ever seen the men whose photographs will soon appear; or whether he mentioned any of their names in your hearing – indeed whether you have ever heard the names before, from Philip Carr or anyone else.” He paused again as she sipped, and the shivering passed: “Do you understand?”
Philip must have meant her to sleep soundly that night so as not to be worried because he was late. Or so that she could not reveal his activity and so raise the alarm!
“Yes,” she said, “I understand.” On the word the lights went low and another photograph appeared on the screen. But there was nothing horrific about this. It was the face of a pleasant-looking, rather wistful man, with a pale golden tan and silky fair hair, well-shaped lips which gave him a droll look. She had a vague feeling that the face was familiar, as a film star’s might be; but she could not place him.
Someone she hadn’t heard before said: “That is Palfrey. Dr Stanislaus Alexander Palfrey.” He pronounced the first syllable of the surname as if the ‘a’ were in fact an ‘o’ and after a pause the man at the table pronounced it differently: “Pal, as in pal, frey. Pa lfrey.”
Suddenly, she knew who the man was. Her expression changed and her eyes lit up as she exclaimed: “I know who he is!”
“Who is he, then?”
“He’s the leader of a kind of Secret Service.”
“Kind of?” the other asked sharply.
“Yes. He—my husband was fascinated by him and often talked about him. I remember now. Bruce used to say: ‘Palfrey for Calamity’.” Still excited, she stared even more intently at the photograph, which was so good that the man Palfrey seemed to be alive. “Whenever the country’s been threatened with calamity, the world for that matter, this man Palfrey with his organisation has—”